A Matter of Control
by Ink Cat
Summary: After a restless night, Clarice Starling retires to the FBI's swimming pool for a workout, and a long brood on the intentions of Hannibal. But the cannibal isn't as distant as she believes... Post SotL, pre Hannibal.


A/N. I've been working on this off and on for the past few weeks, after I started getting more heavy into the SotL fandom. I read the books, re-watched the movies, read the fanfic... oh, yeah, I'm in deep. I'm even doing the Clarice monolague for my theater class, the unforgettable lamb-story. Roxorz. Anyway, a somewhat lengthy fic, about Clarice's thoughts on Lecter, among other things. Enjoy!

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A Matter of Control  
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The FBI's Olympic-sized swimming pool was empty other than her. It was, after all, one o'clock in the morning. The staff left the building open, because between night and day classes, special ops and training procedures that took place at all hours, agents never knew when they could fit in a workout. It was just as well no one was there, Clarice decided. She wasn't in the mood to share the water with anyone else.

She had woken, restless, from a light sleep. After trying (and not succeeding in) returning to slumber, she had headed to the gym complex. She would've gone for a run to clear her head, but Quantico had been blanketed overnight in three feet of snow, and the indoor track was being repaved. It was just as well that she had been forced inside. Swimming was just as good for clearing her head, and at least the pool was heated.

Her arms slipped into the water almost soundlessly. Her kick was straight but relaxed, and she slid through the water as fluidly as a seal. Her head turned to the right. Breathe. Stroke left right left. Breathe. Stroke right left right. Her rhythm was steady; she didn't have to think about the movements anymore, which left her mind free to tease apart the troubles at hand.

It had been four months since Dr. Lecter's escape. At first she had been sure that he would not contact her. As she had told Ardelia, "he would consider it rude." Lately, however, she had begun to come to another, more frightening conclusion.

He would be back, not to hunt her, but to claim her.

The thought chilled her to the bone. Down in that dungeon that was the asylum, and again in Memphis, they had formed an unspeakably tight bond. It wasn't something that she had wanted or planned. Even now, she wished that she had never met him, never piqued his interest, struck his fancy, and allowed the attachment to grow. But she had, and she couldn't deny its existence.

Her first sign to pull back should've been Miggs, Multiple Miggs. Having his semen spattered against her cheek had been undeniably disgusting. What had Lecter called it? A discourtesy. And he had killed Miggs, as a present. Oh, he hadn't actually slain the maniac himself, and nothing could be proven, but he had done it, and for her, and she knew it.

The towel should have been another indicator; she had chalked it up to chivalry at the time. But really, how many incarcerated serial-killers would offer a towel to a member of law-enforcement, one that they only met once before?

And his helping her? For anyone else, he would've just laughed and teased, played mind games until Catherine Martin was dead. For her, he had served Buffalo Bill up on a platter. Sure, it had taken some wheedling, and some sacrifices: reliving her worst memories of childhood hadn't been easy. But the doctor would've just psychologically broken any other endeavoring being with his sharp intellect. He had spared her.

Even his taunting had served a purpose. He had forced her to face… herself. The hardest opposition of all.

She had often wondered where he was. Not out of love. No, she did not love Hannibal Lecter, as the FBI rumor mill seemed to be sure. She wondered where he was because of those thumps in the night and shadows that swung across her path which didn't seem to have casters. It was fear: a purely animalistic desire to know where her enemy was, to keep an eye on the threat.

She often wondered what she would do when he came for her. Oh, he would come, of that she was sure. It was only a question of when. The worst part was not knowing. She angrily pushed at the water. It was helplessness, and that was what he loved. He was probably having a quiet chuckle at her expense somewhere right now, at her tension. He was always in her thoughts, lurking in the back of her mind, and that was exactly what he wanted. He was under her skin, damn him, and he was there to stay, until the day that he returned for her. And until then, she was a sitting duck. And Clarice Starling _hated _being a sitting duck.

They thought she loved him. She didn't. Honest to God, she did not love Hannibal Lecter. And he didn't love her. He desired her, wanted to own her, control her, break her. He didn't love her. Or maybe he did. Who knew? Lecter's thoughts were just as foreign to her as they had been five months ago. She thought that she was beginning to understand him, though; she believed it was a matter of control, of knowing what was his, what he was entitled to, and taking it.

Her chest began to burn, her body protesting the prolonged excercise. She kept her pace steady. Her arms felt heavy, lazy, but her stroke remained compact and clean. Damned if she would stop now.

The doctor… he was like a wolf. On the outside he was polite and charming, even gentlemanly, but there was menace beneath that cultured voice and a dangerous glint in those maroon eyes. She remembered the spark that passed between them when her hand brushed his, a spark that burned in his eyes even as she had been dragged from the makeshift cell.

The Memphis PD had sent the doctor's things to Behavioral Science after his escape. She had found the drawing buried far down beneath the sketches of Italian architecture and French palaces. She vividly remembered the way that the thick parchment had felt under her fingers and the smell of his soap that still clung to the paper. The charcoal Clarice had been garbed in a long, flowing gown, and floating in the night sky. Constellations were visible behind her: Sirius, Ursula, and Cancer, among others that she didn't recognize. Her hair flew into a corona around her face, stirred by some unseen cosmic wind. She held the scales of justice, arms outstretched. At her hip was a sword, and at her feet… a lamb. His liquid eyes stared up at her face with a kind of trust that Starling herself had abandoned long ago. At the top, in his distinctive copperplate, the doctor had penned a single word: Erimentha. She had used the FBI computer's extensive library of foreign languages to find the meaning. Erimentha: ancient Greek which meant 'keeper of memories, determined protectress'.

It fit her unsettlingly well. Keeper of memories: memories of her father, of his death… memories of the ranch. Of her lamb. Protectress of innocence. Protectress of Catherine Martin. Of all of the other Catherine Martins who hadn't been so lucky. Of Fredrica Bimmel. The lambs. The lambs that had started this whole mess. She shook her head and willed the memories away, her goggles snagging a bit in her hair before coming free again.

What _would _she do when he came for her? Shoot him? Take him into custody? Call headquarters? She didn't know. One thing was for sure: she would not be taken willingly. As much as others believed her to care for him, Starling knew what he was deep down: a dangerous man who wanted to be in complete command of her. And she wouldn't let that happen. Not without a fight.

And until then… she would wait.

Her lungs ached, and the muscles in her arms began to throb. Still, she did not stop. Breathe. Stroke right left right. Breathe. Stroke left right left. Breathe.

She attempted to put the doctor from her mind, and failed. She dreaded the day that he came for her. What if she relaxed her guard? What if he caught her unaware? What if…

As she turned her head to breathe, she caught a glimpse of an all-too-familiar figure near the far end of the pool. Her mind reeled. _Lecter!_ She sputtered and breathed in water. Coughing, she sank down into the water in a whoosh of bubbles and limbs. She resurfaced a moment later, gasping for air. She whipped off her tinted goggles…

He was gone.

Angry with herself, she swam to the edge of the pool and lifted herself out. She had allowed her imagination to run wild. She chastised herself for being so foolish, and for pushing herself so hard. She should've stopped swimming an hour ago. Tired, worn out, and no more comforted than she had been before entering the pool, she trudged into the women's locker-room. Starling gathered her things and entered the shower, turning the spray on hotter than was probably healthy. Unfortunately, it wasn't hot enough to wash the irrational fear from her mind. Nothing ever was.

She ran her hands through her hair as she washed it, the white-tea and ginger fragrance of the shampoo rising up with the curling steam. The tiles beneath her feet were cool, the rest of the mass-shower empty. She allowed the muscles in her shoulders to unwind. It was nothing. Just an over-active imagination, provoked by her troubled thoughts. She washed the chlorine from her body, then smoothed lotion over her skin, still enveloped in the steamy warmth of the spray. The pounding of the water against her back thrummed an easy rhythm, one that seemed to match that of her thoughts_. Don't worry, it's fine, don't worry, it's fine…_

She shut the water off and wrapped herself in the thick towel that she had brought with her. Returning to her locker, she sighed contentedly. The shower had done for her what the swim had not: eased her troubled mind and released her of tension. She massaged her shoulder lightly and arched her back to stretch out her muscles. She felt loose and relaxed from the swim, and warm and clean from her shower.

She slipped into panties and a bra, and pulled on a well-worn UVA t-shirt. She reached for her jeans in her locker. As she pulled them out, something fluttered to the ground. She registered the heavy parchment and silk maroon-colored ribbon that trimmed the envelope. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck prickled. Blood rushed to her head.

Cautiously, she knelt and retrieved the letter from the tile floor. Hands shaking, she opened the envelope and slid out the contents. Wide-eyed, Clarice Starling read.

_My Dearest Clarice,_

_I trust that this letter finds you well. You have quite a fine stroke. So sure, so strong. Learned while slaving away in the Academy's physical education classes, I'd imagine. Try, in the future, not to overwork your body so. It won't do. After all, what if you pulled a muscle in one of those lovely calves? Where would we be then?  
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I find the smell of your shampoo most enjoyable, much more so than that of the cheap lotion that you use. White tea leaves and ginger, I believe? You are probably alarmed; if I can smell your bath products, certainly I am close enough to see you? You are correct, my dear, however as a gentleman I respect your privacy. I assure you, I was in no way untoward. I did have to admire you earlier, though. Although I know there is much more to you than your body, I must confess that your outward appearance is quite striking. It was a lovely sight to see, that long, toned form slipping quietly through the water.  
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I'm writing you just as a warning, to inform you of what is to come, and to remind you of a few things. As I suspect you already know, I will be returning one day to reclaim what is mine. You may not think of yourself so. You probably are contemptuous that you can ever be anyone's property. I assure you, such a thing is possible, especially in our curious situation. Don't forget, Clarice, that I know things about you that you can hardly admit to yourself. I know your past, and your innermost secrets, and your deepest fears. And that, darling, makes you mine. You belong to me, now. Be prepared._

_Yours,  
__Hannibal Lecter_

She leaned back against the locker, clutching the letter to her chest and shivering from something other than cold. Her gaze was drawn to the exit… but no, he wasn't there. Had he even been there in the first place? She looked down at the thick envelope with her name embossed on the front. It was proof enough. A chill stole over her body, and she could do nothing but wrap her arms around herself and close her eyes, dread filling every pore of her body.

It was a matter of control, of knowing what was his, what he was entitled to, and taking it. And Hannibal Lecter would be back for her.

She knew it.


End file.
